Which Makes our 12 Year Anniversary a MIRACLE

On the heels of a man-made flash flood and leaving on my flat-iron {that heats to over 400 degrees} for DAYS, it would seem that I am due a 24-hour time slot that doesn't involve grave peril for our home.

And thankfully, that happened.

Today, the kids and I headed out of town {by plane!--I am still rejoicing}. I even remembered all the key elements I usually forget: boarding passes, ID, and underwear.

But instead, I spent several hours on the airplane in prayer while I couldn't find my phone.

UGH.

Story of my life.

This happens daily(ish.)

{Okay. Daily.}

However, we're like most(?), many(?) families of this Modern Space Age that abandoned our home phone long ago for the mobile.

And mine is more than a mobile phone...it's like my brain. And truly, the only part of my brain that works.

ALL of my contact info, my ONLY camera, my calendar {which I don't use that often, but if I have a personality transplant and decide to attempt an Organized Lifestyle, it could become extremely useful}.

It tells me the weather on demand--what, OH WHAT--would I do if I didn't know the exact temperature and that winds were blowing at approximately 25 m.p.h. at a moments notice?

Games for the kids, Angry Birds, sports scores, facebook, twitter, Pinterest, Craigslist, my alarm, email, google, ipod {my heart is now racing}.....do you SEE the magnitude of my loss?

It's like being locked in a cell that is neither padded nor cutely decorated because I don't have Pinterest to plan out the cot and toilet layout.

Well, my awesome travelers {of whom I have no pics because of the aforementioned dilemma}, proved their awesomeness again today.

After walking through security, over the land bridge, down the escalator, to gate A32 (the bowels of DIA), I sat down and simply wanted to know the time.

{Did I mention it is also my watch?}

Rummaging through my bags, it became clear to me and the entire waiting area--who saw every single item I packed--that my phone was NOT with me.

So my posse loaded up and walked approximately 5 miles back to security.

Apparently, I had the look of Total Irresponsibility transcribed on my forehead because the Chief Security Guy offered to run my bag through the scanner to we could be sure the phone was NOT in my bag.

I definitely need one of these at home since I lose things on my own person more often than you might think. {This would include keys that I have found in my pockets WHILE the cops are sticking crowbars in the doors to unlock them.}

Well, NOT in the bag.

Security Guy even called my phone while the kids nestled their ears against our suitcase collection to make sure it wasn't somewhere inside.

No dice.

At this point, I figured it was at home. Somewhere.

Or in Brad's car. Somewhere.

Or in the airport. Somewhere.

The bright side of constantly losing things is that it doesn't send me into a frenzy. I'm frustrated at myself, and feel even worse that it inconveniences others, but I figure that it would turn up somewhere.

Or not.

Without so much as a phone call or text, we found my mom in Dallas (I know!) In order to get the withdrawl shakes to go away, I texted Brad from her phone, to gently ease him into the idea that I wasn't 100% certain of the phone's location.

Of course, I didn't use the word "LOST."

That would be foolish.

Not that Brad can't see right through this.

He has been to the "Nicole can't find her very expensive/important/priceless/irreplaceable _____" rodeo many times. And he is remarkably patient, despite the fact that our monetary losses from my carelessness could fund several small nations.

So I literally threw up my hands in praise when I received this:

Don't most people set their phone on a TABLE SAW for safe keeping?

In the garage?

I exhaust myself.

I Have No Idea Where She Gets It

Next I'll Be Watching Wheel of Fortune

Something about my computer/USB cord/camera is making me want to cry. Like the rest of the world, I have a love/hate relationship with technology and right now it is HATE.

I wasn't going to post about that, but this post will be picture-free due to what is probably my fault, but I'm going to take the low road and blame it on inanimate objects like cameras.

There.

I feel much better.

So I realize I've already dedicated a few blogs to the touchy topic of aging.

Not aging in the sense of sagging skin and wrinkles, but in the sense of "oh-my-gosh-my-life-now-consists-of-more-than-eating-queso-and-watching-late-night-TV."

As you can tell, serious stuff.

Brian Williams and the Nightly News never report on the things I'm going to discuss, but frankly, I feel these are just as relevant to growing old gracefully.

Do you know what I had to buy this week?

{insert picture trapped on my harddrive}

A pillbox.

No, not a cute pillbox hat in which you might mistake me for a modern-day, blonde, Jackie O, who picks up her kids from school in a smart pink skirt and tailored jacket.

But a For Realsies Ugly Blue Plastic Pillbox with the days of the week on it.

Earlier this week, I had to get a prescription refilled. I only take one medication and I looked at the date of the last refill when I got online to order another round.

July.

And the container held exactly one month's worth of pills.

So you might deduce that I skipped a day or twelve somewhere in the last three months. 

And from what I hear, the medicine doesn't work unless you actually take it.

But here's the problem...I am supposed to take the drugs both morning and evening. That is a heckuva lot of remembering to do for someone who has to sniff her armpits each and every day to remember if she applied deodorant (or not.)

(I also keep a backup in the glove box because some mornings I don't remember to remember until I am on the road.)

(And you know what they say: Deodorant applied sloppily at a stoplight is better than not applying any at all.)

To dig deeper into my memory issues, the problem wasn't that I just forgot to take the medicine altogether.

I'd stand there at the bathroom counter trying to remember if I merely thought about taking the medicine or if I actually did take the medicine.

And if I came to the conclusion that I did take it, I worked up a sweat attempting to recall if the memory of taking the medication was of it today or yesterday. Was I remembering taking it a few minutes ago? Or last night? Or yesterday morning? Or in August?

Out of fear of overdose (which clearly, isn't likely, but I don't want to die prematurely) I skipped it altogether.

For weeks at a time.

So all that to say, the blue plastic pillbox is both ugly and lame, but (and this is the important part) MIGHTY EFFECTIVE!

I've already taken three pills in a row. You might call it a Memory Trifecta.

Brad saw Baby Blue sitting on the counter and started making fun of me right away.

And then I gave him even more ammunition at dinner.

Because you know what else I do that is apparently for the aged?

Reuse and wash out Ziploc bags.

{cue photo of storage drawer with tons of used Ziplocs}

{cue laugh track}

The snack and sandwich sizes do not affect my senioritis;  it's just the gallon size that I can scarcely bring myself to throw away.

My mom passed down this geriatric sickness. I clearly remember seeing Gallon Size Ziplocs that had similar properties of crumpled tissue paper all over the kitchen. And without a doubt, they were good for one more use.

There is no rational reason for this behavior, but it feels painful to throw one away.

I don't even know how much money this practice "saves", because I get the big pack at Costco once every few years. But subconsciously, the bags must have similar properties to gold and I can't let them slip away before they have holes in them or no longer zip and lock.

The pillbox and the Ziplocs are just minor signs of aging, but when I start getting my hair set once a week at the beauty operator, please stage an intervention.

Somebody Stop Me

I just wanted you to know that I am wearing leggings today.

In public.

And I am over the age of 30.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Taking Dating to a New Low

Some very sweet friends of ours volunteered (for whatever crazy reason) to take the kids on Saturday afternoon, with promises that we wouldn't have to pick them up until the next morning.

Before I could convince them that they'd gone crazy, I dropped off the kids and high-tailed it out of Dodge in case they smelled the salt and changed their minds.

With an entire afternoon and evening ahead of us for the first time in both recent and distant memory, Brad and I spent the first thirty minutes staring at each other wondering what to do.

After moving an air hockey table to the basement and rearranging some furniture (I wish I was kidding), no epiphanies for outrageous fun materialized.

So I suggested we harken back to the early days of marriage and go grocery shopping together. Apparently when we were young apartment dwellers, we had little need to divide and conquer the weekend errand list. Instead, we did it together!

Home Depot. 

Together!

Target.

Together!

Eating out three times a day.

Together!

If you're starting to picture a scene similar to Beanie's existence in Old School, you are dead on.

So despite feeling a little nerdy, we headed out to have fun and sample ourselves silly.

In the parking lot, however, we spotted a Big Lots.

After a quick conference determining that neither of us had ever been to Big Lots, we whipped into a parking spot and began to live on the edge.

Not like we thought Big Lots held untold treasures we'd been missing, but there was some freedom of spontaneity. Had the kids (love them!) accompanied us, there's no way I would've taken the extra time to wander aimlessly through aisle after aisle of Miscellaneous Junk.

I'm not even going to put Big Lots in the shopping rotation, but at least now I know I'm not missing anything at all. If I ever feel the desire to shop in a Central American-style bodega with an unbelievably eclectic mix of products, most three to five years beyond their ideal shelf life, Big Lots is my place.

After our minor distraction, Brad and I actually made it to the grocery store, or La Food City, as we call it. (Someday I'll share the story on that, but just know that we never actually utter the words "grocery store." It's always "Lafooceetheey.")

Ironically, we ran into a friend of ours in produce. Well, sort of. 

We barely recognized each other because neither of us had our kids chained to the cart or running around wildly using bananas to blast unassuming old ladies. I stared at her way too long and she was hesitant to shout out our names because we didn't have our offspring to confirm our identity.

Scary.

Which is exactly why we need to get out more. And by the way things were going, not to the grocery store.

We actually had a great time together joking around and discussing some of our favorite and All-Time Grossest products.

A lot of lightbulbs came on for me as to why Brad takes forever to run to the store. He is magnetically attracted to each and every endcap, whenceforth he thoroughly scrutinzes the product and stares at it for awhile.

I am usually blowing through Lafooceetheey with only ten minutes to spare in which I need to purchase thirty items and arrive at preschool without a speeding ticket or a fine for being late to pick-up.

So after all that excitement, we were understandably hungry.

This, of course, called for dinner out, which led to a discussion about a shower. I kind of thought I would brush my hair, put on another layer of makeup, cover my stained shirt with a scarf, then head out the door.

Brad lovingly suggested I might want to shower first because I was looking a little greasy. (Which was most certainly true, but I didn't really care like I probably should.)

This is not the conversation of teenage lovebirds.

If someone had told me at 18 that my husband would one day be begging me to shower before a dinner engagement, I would've snorted and called them a liar.

But there we were.

And truth be told, Brad was right. A shower did make me feel surprisingly clean. That is one of the joys of a loving marriage--Brad knows me even better than I know myself. Or he just prefers the non-greasy look. Whatever.

He also wanted to watch the first half of the football before we left, so it was truly a win-win.

California Pizza Kitchen is always one of our favorite lunch or dinner stops. I think I love every single food that they serve. I won't detract from this very focused blog about our date to discuss my favorite menu items, but believe me, I could. Because, YUM.

Anyway, we sat at the bar, watched the second half of the football game, used free appetizer coupons, shared a waldorf salad and thai chicken pizza, and watched commercials for the first time since 2005.

It was great.

Sometimes on dates, we feel the need to discuss all the pressing, big issues we only have time to discuss in 4-minute fragments at home.

But Saturday night, we just plain had fun. We screamed at great plays, made snarky comments about the lame commercials, and discussed our favorite restaurant tortilla chips.

And that is why I love Brad.

He is serious, fun, seriously fun, never takes me too seriously. That is a smart man.

Oh yeah. We finished the night by renting Baby Mama.

Oh my lands alive, it is hysterical. We saw it in the theater with some friends and a packed house full of high-schoolers.

Let me just say that those of us who've actually given birth laughed a million times harder than the sophomore cheerleading squad who've never had the Rebel Force invade their bodies.

I think it was even funnier the second time. If that is possible. 

So here is the moral of the story: I love being married and I love lame dates. 

So does Brad. 

Perfect.

The Smell of Burnt Toast is Wafting Through My House

Ok, internets, I need some serious help.

We're having a major problem with our toaster. Or should I say "toaster."

A more accurate descriptor is a "burner and torturer of formerly edible bread."

I am a HUGE fan of the toaster, and more specifically, the toaster oven. However, I am not a fan of small appliances and the space they require.

I like the activities small appliances perform (you know, brewing, blending, chopping), but I am categorically opposed to them sitting on my counter.

The exception, of course, is my coffee pot. It is beautiful, used daily, and part of my soul.

I love blenders, food processors (big and small), mixers, and toasters. Electric can openers and elaborate juicing machines that allow you to create beverages(?) out of celery and carrots aren't so high on the list.

Nothing makes me happier than a clean, crumb-free, countertop. It's like the universal signal to moms that it is okay to sit down (unless there is a large pile of laundry on the couch.)

(Theoretically.)

To give you more information on our Personal Toaster History than you've ever desired, let me just say that for years, we SWORE by the toaster oven.

I appreciate that it not only toasts bread, but it reheats pizza perfectly and makes a fine tuna melt, all without turning on the big oven.

However, the toaster oven? LARGE. UGLY. LARGE.

And if y'all think I have room to store one under my cabinets, than you haven't seen my organizational "system" that has plenty of room for odd-shaped and precariously stacked casserole dishes, but no room for the 9x13 pans I actually use.

(Someday when my self-esteem is soaring, I will take pictures of the inside of my cabinets then wait by the phone while Dr. Phil calls to stage an intervention.)

So anyway, when we put the house on the market awhile back, it became obvious that the toaster oven had to go. It was also shorting out more often than not, so we chucked it.

Being that Jackson has eaten approximately 7 million Eggo waffles since birth (give or take), it didn't seem possible to go without any toasting system for a month.

So Holly stepped in and donated her Mickey Mouse toaster that (allegedly) imprinted a Mickey Mouse face on each piece of bread.

I agree that the idea of marrying Mickey Mouse and a waffle is charming, but let me just say that the image of Mickey wasn't exactly precise. Or clear. Or visible.

I'm not sure if you can tell, but that is smoke that accompanies each and every piece of toast that dares to enter the toaster.

Do you know how long we've been carrying on like this?

ONE AND A HALF YEARS.

I am a fool (or optimist?) because each morning I think that it might not smoke.

But it does.

And here is the picture of Mickey on the clear side:

Now here is a picture of Mickey on the side I flip over so the kids will still eat it after I slather on enough butter to conceal the burned taste:

Doesn't that just make you hungry for breakfast?

Truthfully, it only burns like that when you let the toaster run it's full session and the toast pops up.

I've avoided the smoky outcome several times by manually popping the toast before the cycle is over. 

Of course, the waffles are still icy or the bread is still bread, but hey, NO SMOKE!

This morning, the straw that broke the Mickey Toaster's back was when I toasted the chocolate chip zucchini bread before spreading on a thin (ok...thick) layer of peanut butter.

(I like a light and healthy breakfast.)

Well, the zucchini bread was too big to fit and broke into a several chunks that I had to pry out like I was playing a game of Operation.

(No worries...I still drowned each and every crumb of the chocolate chip zucchini bread in peanut butter and ate them. All of them. And had seconds.)

So clearly, we have a toaster problem.

Which is why I need you to tell me what kind of toaster I should buy?

Of course, I'd like this one, but if I had $319 sitting around, I'd be out shopping at Nordstrom instead of blogging about toasters.

I need some insight, opinions, and help. 

Soon. 

Because I will be toasting that zucchini bread again tomorrow.

They Don't Teach You This Stuff in College

This past weekend was full of sporting merriment, which in my opinion, is some of the best kind of merriment there is. I mean, what is better than the start of college football, pro football, and the U7 soccer league?

I'll tell you what: junior golf.

A few months ago, Brad stopped by Play-It-Again Sports in search of some kid-sized irons. Our goal, of course, is to begin Jackson and Lilly's illustrious golf career by chipping some balls over at the park across our from house. It is just like a real fairway except that the houses along it haven't signed up to have their windows broken by shanked balls.

Brad called home, all excited about the prospect of millions of dollars (Jackson) and adorable golf outfits (Lilly). (Or me.) (Or all of us.)

Anyway, he pulled into the driveway (waving the clubs out the window for emphasis) and called the kids over to see Their Future.

Unfortunately, the clubs were a little long. We were only $2 into this venture (apparently we're going to invest in quality clubs just as soon as they start making contact with the ball) so Brad took matters into his own hands.

Now if there's one thing I simultaneously love and hate about Brad, it's his handiness and love for do-it-yourself projects.

Good things have come of it, like the amazing custom shelves for our playroom, my PBK knock-off changing table, and basement shelves strong enough to hold the 1985 Bears defensive line.

However, there are some drawbacks, like the fact that we've lived in this house for over a year and have no prospects of having any sort of backyard before the grandchildren arrive in a couple of decades.

(I am seizing this as my opportunity to love him for who he is.)

Well, Brad decided that before the golf careers of our Mini Me's could take off, he must cut the golf clubs down to size.

This involved several steps:

1. Watch YouTube videos to see how other people have cut down their clubs.

2. Believe YouTube is a reliable source of information.

3. Convince me that he should use several power tools to imitate the "brilliance" of complete strangers featured in YouTube videos.

By now, you may understand that I don't believe YouTube to be a credible DIY resource.

A few months ago, Brad decided we should try E-85 (you know, the corn fuel) in our cars. His source for this epiphany?

Watching YouTube videos featuring other Chevy Suburbans that didn't blow up. That is hardly the standard of excellence we strive for.

Or so I thought.

We filled that tank with E-85 and haven't looked back.

Nor have we blown up the car, so I suppose those lunatics are on to something.

Well, the "golf club cutting experts" on YouTube beautifully demonstrated that we should get out our air compressor and blow the grips right off those clubs.

I was skeptical, especially considering our Barry Bonds of Air Compressors is strong enough to inflate an innertube just by looking at it.

Not about to witness the clubs blasting through the front yard and hurting a small child, I waited inside while Tim-The-Toolman-Taylor cranked up the compressor and went to work.

A few seconds later (I told you it was strong), Brad came in with the grips successfully peeled down.

The next step was to go in the basement and use some sawing device to trim about six inches off the clubs.

I honestly wasn't aware that we had power tools with metal-cutting capabilities, but I will keep that in mind next time I am trying to wrestle the wire-cutters to separate the stems from my Hobby Lobby floral bunch. 

Like a kid in the power tool aisle, Brad literally came bounding up the stairs (picture Santa's enthusiasm, but thinner, and carrying golf clubs) with the irons successfully shorn down about half a foot.

Somehow, he sealed the grip back on, then took Tiger and Tigress over to the park to start printing money.

So all this to say, maybe YouTube is a fantastic news source that I've been denouncing all this time. 

And I am prouder of Tim-the-Toolman than I let on.

But when I start looking to YouTube for fashion advice, somebody PLEASE stop me.

Not Sure Who Had More Fun

I know you are waiting on the edge of your computer chair, waiting to see the pictures from Jackson's Star Wars party.

But since my sweet friend, Karen, took over 250 pictures, it's going to take me some time to sort through the madness.

In the meanwhile, we struck up some "conversation" with Tatooine's finest.

Karen had a thing for Anakin...

And for that matter, so did Holly.

But I like my men tall and hairy.

Anakin preferred Holly's tush grab to Karen's passionate kiss.

And then Holly and I partied with an Imperial Guard.

Rock. On.

(And never let go of your Sonic cup.)

There Were No Horses Playing Poker

Oh, y'all.

Tonight we spent a significant chunk of time looking at Western art. By Western, I mean Wild West.

Cowboys, Indians, sunsets, horses and snakes. 

For dramatic effect, there was even a python swaddled around some poor zookeepers arm on the way in. Many of the other event attendees were all excited and getting closer to see Mr. Python (or maybe it was the Mrs.) in all his (her) glory.

I however, not-so-discreetly scooted to the other side of the staircase and hightailed it right inside to the comfort of a glass of wine. Call me cynical, but I just don't trust snakes. (You know, Eve.)

We were invited to view a private collection of some gazillionaires super fancy art. Many folks from Brad's work were there, just loving this exclusive opportunity to view these paintings that most of the public has never seen.

When Brad took this new position, I knew there would be a lot of entertaining clients, business partners, etc. For whatever reason, I was led to believe that a lot of this entertainment would take place in sporting arenas.

Give me a football, baseball, or hockey stadium with peanuts on the floor and I am comfortable. I'll talk nickel-package defense, the cheapening of the American League due to the designated hitter, and even icing. 

But art? I am scared to pronounce the names of anyone I've heard of, which is all of Picasso and Norman Rockwell. Give me Fukudome anyday and I might sound semi-coherent.

It was very hard to pretend that we were fascinated, just fascinated, by all of this painting and excitement(!), and Real Art and hoity-toityness that was second to none.

I saw more Indian (or more accurately, Native American) burial rituals and various other gory depictions of war and strangled horses than I ever dreamed.

Since I've never dreamed of Indians being wrapped in burial clothes and hoisted onto tree branches while their horses await death tied up to the tree trunk below, it was all a bit much to take in. 

There were three entire floors of bumper-to-bumper paintings. None of this one-painting-per-room nonsense like in that Famous Paris Art Joint. I think I even saw a Native American Mona Lisa and a Native American Jesus. Those interpretations were...creative.

Brad and I politely interacted with other patrons, trying desperately not to talk about the art because our knowledge was so pitifully limited that we could only be made fools if we spoke. After nodding, smiling, and trying to talk about sports, we'd move on to the next fabulous section(!) and pretend to admire the intricacies of dying cowboys and broken-down railroads.

Our home base was the painting by Georgia O'Keefe.  I've totally heard of her! I think she is Big Time! 

We would be all, "Don't you just love Georgia O'Keefe? She is super awesome at painting with colored paint. And flowers. And stuff."

I'm pretty sure we made a grrreat impression on the co-workers.

Oh, and for good measure, we picked up Taco Bell on the way home. Even the food was way beyond our simple palettes. 

After all, nothing says "fine art" like a bean burrito.

Posting Pictures of Bloody Clothing Doesn't Seem Quite Right

So, I wanted to show y'all the awesome pieces of my wardrobe that are now covered in A-positive (or whatever) blood that formerly belonged to my daughter.

However, my idea was to go online and copy the pictures of clean, for-sale, blood-free clothes so you get the idea. I really don't want to get gruesome on you...I just wanted to begin another round of the fashion fiesta.

But when I went to Lucy to borrow their photo of my shirt, it was gone. Guess they've sold out because their clothing rocks. Actually it Rocks, with a capital R. 

The excitement about their Rockin' (or is it Rocking? that seems geriatric) continues because they are finally going to open a store in the South Denver area. I've been traveling to Phoenix and Dallas to acquire their apparel (on my private jet) so just piling in the 'Burb and heading to the mall will be a lot easier and more time efficient.

Also because I don't have a jet. 

I really wanted to post a picture of the newly-bloodied white jacket because it too, Rocks. It is from the Gap where I hardly ever spend any money at all. None.

And instead of purchasing white jeans--which I wanted to do, but my greater fashion sense kicked in and forbade me--I purchased a white denim jacket. That might bring some of us back to our "Tiffany" days, but I felt a sense of peace about the whole deal.

Tiffany couldn't possibly lead me astray in fashion or musical choices. No way.

I had a bunch of "Bucks Back" (because I never shop there) so I think the jacket was actually close to free. Let's all choose to see the good news about that instead of the bad.

In other fashion bulletins, I am back to my winter wardrobe because it was butt freezing cold here and there were flurries in the air. IN MAY.

My psyche is very tender in spring and can't take all this teasing, especially after spending time in actual warm climates in the last month or so. 

Right now, I'm going to turn on the bed-warmer, put on my flannel pajamas and just go freeze to death. 

Because apparently, that's what you do during springtime in Colorado.

M-Day Aftermath

After feeling the immense love from P.F. Chang's (I mean, my kids) yesterday, reality came crashing back in the form of actual crashes of sorts.

Our war wounds for today:

Jackson:

2 grandiose splinters--removed through minor surgery requiring a very clean, safe, sanitized razor blade. (I am part surgeon, y'all.)

Lilly:

1 busted lip and blood on my new white t-shirt. And my new white jacket. And everywhere.

Don't worry--I was most concerned about her lip. I really didn't care about my carefully selected, bargain-priced new clothing. My first thought was, "These silly clothes aren't eternal!"

I actually panicked because the blood gush was so great that it pooled around her teeth and I feared that YET ANOTHER tooth was mangled because of a fall.

For those scoring at home, she has two teeth with sizeable chunks out of them due to some wild collisions with the driveway (which is not made of foam) as a toddler. I didn't think her precious little crooked smile could afford another dent.

I also had to break up a fun game of jump-off-the-top-bunk-onto-a-few-flimsy-pillows that was going on while the neighbor kids were over. It's one thing if my cherubs break a bone due to stupidity and parental neglect, but its another thing if I have to carry a sweet child with a dangling leg next door and explain what fun(!) they were having when the incident occurred.

My reputation might be confirmed.

And Brad is joining the post-Mother's Day retribution by making me watch some terrible show about how they make police whistles. I can't even imagine the brainstorming session in which someone at the Discovery Channel pitched the idea for an ENTIRE HOUR of police whistle lore.

And someone else said, "YES! POLICE WHISTLES! The public will LOVE it!"

You know how sometimes these shows on the Discovery Channel are so exciting and things that you formerly thought boring are now filled with fascination? (See: penguins and deep-sea fishing.)

Not so much on the whistles. 

I think the shrill sound hits a little too close to home with preschool girls constantly on the prowl. Also, whistles are in the kazoo family, which are my sworn enemies.

Although it did remind me of a Mr. Rogers episode when they visited a plant where french horns were made.

But I don't think I liked that episode, either. I just kept waiting for Mr. Rogers to make some more daring fashion choices rather than simply altering the color of his cardigans. (Very different than my use of tank tops.)

Could he have thrown in a jacket? A button-up cardigan? Short-sleeves? A pair of shorts? A ball cap? Some knickers? A basketball jersey?

I think picturing Mr. Rogers in a wife-beater tank top with bermuda shorts and flip flops might have just been the highlight of my day.

(May he rest in peace.)

A Smattering of Amazing Photography

My brain is a little off-kilter because of the amount of children roaming our den lately. I believe there are around eight smallish creatures on the property this minute, which is why I am very responsibly hunkered down by the computer.

I think that is what they refer to as "hands-on" parenting.

So in the name of chaos, I thought I'd share a few pictures that have absolutely nothing to do with anything except for the fact that they made me smile.

I call the first photo Circle of Life:

(I am naming all of these because I'm pretty sure that's what big time photographers do. And I am nothing if not big time.)

Anyway, as a kid, I remember hating making Mother's Day crafts and planting the obligatory marigold each year. I felt so embarrassed, because I stunk at crafts and thought my mom would rather have some swanky something from Neiman's rather than a pathetic cup with my name on it containing a flower that in all likelihood, will never bloom. (And if you know my mom, nothing could be further from the truth).

But that cup with a tiny plant and my baby's name on it?

Love it.

Now that I am a mom, I get it. I'll forgo expensive and well-wrapped gifts any day over something made with little hands. 

And should it be accompanied by a Starbucks beverage, I will say an extra prayer of thanks.

This next photo I call Fine Art:
This big beauty was sitting in front of me at the stoplight the other day. I may not have had the camera ready for Lilly's Easter program or Jackson's debut on the waterslide, but I am READY for heinously painted vehicles at the stoplight.

It's a gift.

Jackson nearly soiled himself with glee at seeing this truck. For a few minutes, I was tempted to pimp out the Suburban with our favorite Wii game, but then thought better of it. That money could be used for so many other things like buying another guitar or installing stage lights in the living room.

Priorities.

The next photo I call Junk Drawer Surprise:

I'd like to make several observations:

1) This is as clean as it ever gets. I emptied the entire thing last week when it was unable to completely close for 11 days straight. 

Then, I put everything back in neatly. Neater. As neat as I want it to be.

2) That is not a handkerchief in the middle of the junk drawer.

Those are Princess Jasmine panties. And to my knowledge, I have never bought Lilly any Princess Jasmine panties.

I am still trying to connect the dots on this one.

So I guess the moral of the story is to be very careful when you search for a Sharpie because instead, you might find underwear. 

(I felt that the broad application of that little vignette made it blog worthy.)

3) This is unrelated to any of the photos but I would just like to observe that when a child plays the kazoo within a 10 mile radius of my eardrums, it raises my blood pressure to heart-attack ready levels.

And when a child plays the kazoo in the car with me, I simultaneously grip the steering wheel with greater force than the Incredible Hulk and look around for a button with which to eject myself from the front seat so quickly that onlookers will think the rapture has come.

So in summary:

Random pictures=super duper

Kazoos=death wish

Thank you. Back to "parenting."

Busted

I was otherwise detained, so Jackson answered the phone.

"Hi, this is Jackson."

(Listening.)

"Oh, hi Miss Karen. 

Um, we have a bunch of friends from the neighborhood over right now and we're all watching my mom play Guitar Hero.

Can she call you back in a little while?"

"Warning" "I've" "Overused" "Quotes"

Just so we're all clear, here's another photo of the Suburban:

Can you believe how the kids have aged since we last saw it? In case you've forgotten the whole car saga, we have been without The Vehicle That Is Very Much Ours since December 8th.

This is where I own up to the fact that it was ME who crashed it and the light post didn't jump out and use itself as a baseball bat to bash in the entire left side.

But still.

I didn't know it takes this kind of time to recraft what had better be an entirely new car plated with gold and platinum and more jewels than Solomon's temple.

At the risk of boring the vast and diverse reading audience, I've left out several twists and turns in this story the past few months. Brad and I just laugh with each other and add two weeks to any timetable the body shop gives us.

But today's little phone call from our "friend," "Jerry" seemed newsworthy enough.

The phone call started with an apology because the body shop wasn't going to be able to tow the Suburban to our very driveway this afternoon as promised.

No big deal.

Seriously, when they told us that earlier this week, we added the obligatory two week window to their quote and weren't expecting it back until early March.

But wait, I should back up.

The body shop had already towed the "completed" car to the location where we dropped it off. The very contientious employees immediately noticed that the door that was causing all this trouble STILL wasn't hung correctly.

They assessed this within 30 seconds of its arrival. These employees made this observation from inside the shop as it was parked far across the parking lot. Apparently the door hangers at the other location (the SUV is being shuttled back and forth for "quality" purposes...) didn't notice that it still looked like it had been in an accident even as they were up close and hopefully even touching it. And "fixing" it.

Seriously, if I didn't care how the door was hung I NEVER WOULD HAVE TAKEN IT TO GET FIXED OVER TWO MONTHS AGO AND MY FACE GETS RED JUST TYPING THAT.

(And exhale.)

To add to that, they noticed the paint "experts" didn't bother to paint the inside of the door.

Of course I laughed when they told me that because the exact words from the paint guy were, "It looks absolutely beautiful!"

I suppose that was his first day on the job and his background is in watercolors.

And I was all, "You painted it the ORIGINAL COLOR, right?"

I was nervous because auto paint isn't really supposed to look good; it's supposed to look like it was never re-painted after a wreck. Images of a Ramone -esque paint job flashed in my head but I quickly blocked them out.

Ok, so after all this hoopla about the Suburban being returned to the original body shop (I have no reason to believe you are actually following me in this lengthy Car Drama, but just try), "Jerry" calls.

(Clears throat.)

"In the process of rehanging and aligning the door today, we accidentally banged it into something else in the shop and are going to have to redo the entire rear panel again."

"Thank you for the update, 'Jerry.'"

"@#$*(_ #$@*()!@** &&%!!@??)*"

"*#($) **()) #$%^^."

(Brad and I spoke forcefully in loud voices.)

This new "challenge" apparently involves taking off the trim on the entire left side, removing the door, running boards, and (get your oxygen tank ready) REPAINTING THE LEFT SIDE OF THE CAR. That, I believe, was (one) of our original problems.

(Deep sigh. Inhale slowly. Drink something hard.)

"Jerry" is "sorry" but we still won't have our Suburban until "Tuesday."

"Right."

Let's Get Physical, Physical

Last Monday, something crazy came over me and I decided to attempt to become a group fitness instructor. Not a personal trainer, but the type of instructor who leads a bunch of middle-aged women through painful and awkward exercises in hopes that their clothes will magically get larger.

Really, I am all about where fitness and fashion intersect. I am mostly hoping to wear something like this:

I especially like the belt and the high-cut sides. As I always say, if you can't wear a shiny patent leather belt while you do some squats, when can you wear one?

I love this outfit, too. In fact, I think I already owned it when I was nine years-old, except they called it, "Get In Shape Girl."

I even get kind of jealous when I see some of the young darlings wearing their leg warmers today, but remember the fashion rule: If you wore the trend the first time around, do NOT wear it again.

Now this is probably my favorite, just in time for Valentine's Day:

Mostly, I appreciate Olivia's bandana that she careful rolled and tied around her head. Very functional. Just remember, it is better to look good than to feel good. Or something like that.

Back to my new endeavor...so I registered for this Primary Group Fitness Certification on Monday, hoping desperately to pass the written and practical tests on Friday.

No big deal, I foolishly thought. I've been going to group exercise classes for years and figured I could just wing it.

Then I received the study materials. ON WEDSNESDAY. Oh boy. The textbook was 503 pages and included a lot of muscles I'd never heard of. I was comfortable with "quadricep" but not so comfortable with the four muscles that make up the quad.

For example, rectus femoris did not sound like part of my thigh. I was thinking it belonged somewhere slightly to the north.

But now I know.

A college roommate instant messaged me during an intense study session last week, wondering if all this time cracking the books reminded me of our days back in college. At which point I kindly reminded her that I actually majored in Saturday Night Live Skits from the 80's...which did not require a textbook and had a lot of sight gags.

And the written test wasn't even the tip of the very large Iceberg of Exercise Knowledge.

There was a practical section for the test as well. Meaning I had to TEACH a group of people a cardio or strength technique.

Let me provide you with further context: Most people taking this certification were already group fitness teachers or just renewing their credentials. And have I EVER for one single second, taught a class? Um, no.

Between teaching first grade and attending group fitness classes, I thought I had it covered.

Not so much.

Fast forward to the certification testing on Friday: since I was a late registrant (to say the least), I was number 33 out of 33 people to demonstrate my strength "skills" and "techniques." (Apparently they use those terms loosely in the fitness world.)

I had determined ahead of time that I would teach the push-up because it's easy to modify and there is no choreography involved. I can't get tangled up on my own feet or miscount a grapevine-left-step-knee-KICK! when I am simply propelling my own body weight up and down. I came prepared with all of my alignment kinesology-babble and safety cues and a lovely two minute demo all planned.

Being #33, I had to participate in THIRTY TWO other demos before mine. To spell that out with absolute clarity, I was the "class member" doing various exercises while 32 people did their 2-minute segments.

Now for some higher math to show off my smarts: multiply 32 by 2 minutes and you have 64 minutes of cardio and strength exercise. Doing exercise for that long makes you TIRED.

To top it off, the two girls before me also decided to model pushups. That means that before my grand finale, I was pre-exhausting my poor pecs for FOUR minutes.

I am good to go with a few push-ups here and there, but I was shaking when it was finally my turn to teach this lovely segment. It's not really my common practice to repetitively do push-ups for six straight minutes. I am a Pillsbury Dough Boy Meets Soccer Mom--NOT a Marine. I briefly thought about calling an audible and switching to abs or lunges, but I didn't trust myself to remember what part of the kinetic chain needs to stay aligned during a those drills.

So there I was, in front of the class, exhausted and shaking, a novice teaching this strength skill to a room of certified instructors. Lovely. But somehow, I must have channed Mr. Incredible and my muscles didn't give out on me in my moment of "glory."

I distracted the judges with lots of jokes and smiling. I wanted them to think I was so obliviously happy to be there that they'd just feel BAD failing me.

But good news: I passed!

I'm debating what type of spandex/adult onesie/color coordinated gear in which to make my debut. Hopefully it will match my white high-top Reeboks. Glory.

I'm Just SURE You've Been Wondering

I finally got back on the internet this morning after a brief hiatus that seemed like forever. My apologies for not blogging, but I've been BUSY. With what, you ask?

Nothing exciting, but that will not stop me from filling you in with all the sordid details (and pictures!) at some point in the near future.

Let's just say I am...sore.

Perhaps the most traumatic discovery upon my return to "cyberspace" (didn't we all agree not to call it that anymore?) was that Pioneer Woman gave away Guitar Hero III for the Wii and I DIDN'T GET A CHANCE TO ENTER AND WIN!

Yes, a good friend of mine has it, but I can only invite myself over to her house so many times before she realizes I am just using her to get to her Guitar Hero. And truth be told, we really both need one so that we can rock out with some some face-melting guitar solos together.

Because that is what sophisticated women like ourselves do.

Just picture Susan and Sharon in "The Parent Trap" singing "Shook Me All Night Long" and you'll get a picture of what we look like.

Ahem.

I'm sorry if that last image make you unable to eat breakfast. But since nothing has ever come in between me and oatmeal cinnamon pancakes, I'm going to eat right now.

The Wheels are Officially Off

I am the epitome of seasonal.

All those seasonal end-caps, rounders, displays and catalogs are right up my alley.

I get bored quickly to say the least. In fact, let's all step back and consider the miracle that I am still interested in blogging after a few months.

Lately, I'm barely interested, but that's ok...I forge ahead publishing nothingness with the best of them.

So anyway, I need a new look for the blog.

It's killing me.

This template was lovely circa 2005 when I wrote my first post. However, it is growing tiresome.

Unfortunately, I can't go down to my basement and rummage through unpacked moving boxes for accessories to liven things up. That's my usual tactic for home-decor blahs around here.

The other day, I spent several hours wandering around the basement, digging through random boxes, desperately searching for some Valentine's happiness to display. I didn't replace all of the towels with pink and red ones or put those plastic-y, removable, peely, things on my windows (clearly, the actual word for what they are has totally escaped my overloaded Helmet. Help, please help.)

Anyway, a few candy dishes, a small wreath and a few serving plates later, I felt like a new person.

Oh, and a few bags of pink and red M&M's also helped. In both dark chocolate and peanut. And Hot Tamales. And Hershey kisses. And a batch of cookie dough with toasted pecans, chocolate chips, oatmeal and peanut butter helped.

But don't worry...I'm not an emotional eater. It was all of 6 degrees outside and I needed to rev my metabolism to keep warm. Absolutely.

So back to the blog. I need a blog decorator.

Someone with good taste, intelligence, and an ability to understand computers.

I am very challenged in that area.

The other day, I was almost in tears as I told Brad, "My brand new digital camera is already broken! I am nothing but POISON to all things electronic!"

"Have you charged the battery since you got the camera?"

"Huh?"

"Just a thought."

His patience is downright admirable.

I am pretty sure that I could crash a computer just thinking about the hard drive.

Anyway, I've searched for photos, clip art, something resembling anything to put on the blog. To no avail.

So if any of y'all know blog decorators, HOOK. ME. UP. I don't need some "designer" that is very sleek and modern. Because in case you haven't noticed, there is nothing sleek and modern about me. But if you know someone who does puffy and retro, we might be in business.

I can give a vivid and most darling description of what I want the blog to look like. I JUST CAN'T DO IT, CAPTAIN! I DON'T HAVE THE POWER! (Name that movie...)

I believe that if someday, I was sentenced to time in a jail cell, my primal decorating urges would cause me to carve some adorable etchings in the wall, use toilet paper to craft papier mache sculptures, and fashion play clothes out of the jailhouse curtains. Oh wait, my dreams just intersected and that's the one where my governess is Fraulein Maria and I sing my way through town while laughing at my brother's lederhosen.

(Cue music)

Which brings us back to Dec-or-a-ting.

Which Is Why I Must Stop Eating Barbeque

This morning I drove to Honeybaked Ham, ordered two 16-pound hams, strapped them to my butt with bungee cords, and then went for a run.

At least that's how it felt.

This Will Make Even a Slow News Day Seem Riveting

One thing I totally appreciate about blogging is that my sweet friends and family have jumped right on board with my very mediocre ramblings.

Frankly, I'm just glad someone is out there reading. I would probably blog anyway, because it's so convenient to put thoughts, pictures, and events all in one place where they can't be misplaced or need to be stored.

But the funny part about having such an eager following is that if ANYTHING remotely newsworthy/funny/normal happens, family and friends in my midst start running for cameras like crazy shouting, "QUICK! Let's take a picture of this for the blog!"

Or.

"Oh my gosh! Pllleeeassssse don't put that on your blog! I swear you to secrecy!!!" Contrary to popular opinion, I don't carry a tape recorder with me and truly have a terrible memory.

It's like they (who are we kidding...YOU) think I am some intrepid reporter documenting each personal event with precision and clarity and of course, my most excellent photojournalism.

The blog is supposed to capture my dull, everyday life, but even when documenting the monotonous, some incidents are mindnumbingly boring while others are definitely boring, but less boring than emptying the dishwasher, therefore publishable.

While I sincerely admire my readers' desires to partner with me in my top-notch blogging, it's also quite a commentary on what is "newsworthy" these days.

Eh-hem.

Exhibit A:
Over Christmas, Mom and I were at the grocery store doing some shopping, except for the fact that if we saw something on sale, we bought enough of it to feed a small army. (Truth be told, she bought obscene quantities while I innocently pushed the cart. I did not inherit that sickness. By the end of our trip I believe we had close to 300 ounces of chocolate chips in the pantry, freezer, and covering all countertops.)

We bought four boxes of All-Bran Buds (stop your salivating) and seven bags of chocolate chips--WE ARE SO CONTRADICTORY! AND HILARIOUS! HA! HA! HA!

Quick, take a picture! At the grocery store!

Exhibit B:
The next photo is compliments of Brad grabbing the camera to capture me devouring a chocolate covered strawberry.

He was all, "HA! Nicole is EATING! AGAIN! SUGAR! Get me to the camera!"

In my defense, if you've never tried Shari's Berries thou shalt not criticize.

That was certainly not one of my most dignified moments, but dignity has never been one of my hallmarks. Nor has restraint around chocolate covered strawberries.

Brad's favorite style of photography is the candid type that finds it's subject/victim in a compromising situation. It's like having a personal paparrazi. Which I believe celebrities have been known to attack.

Exhibit C:

Jackson begged me to capture the joy of my "seven thousandth" Starbucks over Christmas. I was taking them full-strength and throwing caution to my usual non-fat, sugar free ways. I know...just crazy.

So even my five year-old ferociously dug through the almighty purse for the camera and proceeded to turn it on and snap this most-flattering photo:

Everyday he asks, "Did you put my picture on the blog yet?!" So, here you go, bud!

Exhibit D:

The other night I met my friend at the hospital for what turned out to be a false baby alarm. Every time the doctor or nurses came in and asked her a question, she was like, "You better not publish that on your blog!"

I can totally understand her not wanting me to publish her pre- or post-pregnancy weights (and as a friend, I vow I will never publish anyone's weight unless they are a professional wrestler), but I calmed her down when I shared out loud my highest pregnancy weight with Jackson, which she couldn't possibly achieve unless she ate an entire Sonic value meal everyday of the pregnancy. (Which may or may not have been my strategy to achieve such a lofty number.)

But here's the kicker: at the end of the ordeal when everyone was deemed medically healthy and fine (See! I am NOT disclosing the actual ailment!) and she looked ready for a glamorous debut on ER, she just DEMANDED that I take a picture to document the hilarity of the double hospital gowns in the name of the blog.

I am just doing my blogospherical duty.

I Never Pretended the Wii was for the Children

Attention all readers: I have sustained my first Wii related injury.

I must have added a schnazzy finish to my bowling kick, because my left glute knotted up like a giant piece of rope caught in a tug-of-war between Hercules and Mr. Incredible.

Fear not, I still bowled a respectable 173, but those last three frames were PAINFUL.

Also.

We have rearranged our living room furniture like a bowling alley.

We thought it was temporary.

That was three days ago.

The carpet may never be the same.

And it's hard to blog while you bowl.

not bowling, but still acting stupid